I used to be so terribly melancholy about everything, myself, my life - I was hopeless. I was somehow led to believe everyone was sad and it was most certainly normal to feel that particular emotion all the time. I never was able to get help or even think to get help because I of course thought it was natural to feel that sad. I was so sad I would think about death - day in - day out. Until one day it all became too much and I tried to end my life. Whilst laying in the emergency department on a hospital bed somewhere between life and death, I felt completely numb. I felt the pain had finally succumbed and I was going to be okay in a tragic sort of ending. I obviously lived to tell the tale so to my unfortunate sub-conscience I failed in my attempt to die. I then was received all the help I could possibly get and was hospitalized in a mental institution for a while.

 In my opinion - despite the people that just want to help - The hospital made me believe whilst being in there for so long that I was really making progress and I was finally feeling happiness again and forgetting about all the stresses in the world though the moment I was out I realized the duration I was put away for was perceived as a big “band-aid” - I had a rather big wound that was very deep and instead of getting it stitched up properly someone stuck a big band-aid on it. As a result of this when I was finally able to get out and take that bandage off, the wound was still there, only sicker from not receiving the proper aid it needed from the beginning.  

After being in an out of hospital ER’s and mental institutions for just over a year now, I’ve realised how unrealistic it really is in there. There is no way someone can stay in hospital until they are “better” (from a mental illness) because life in there isn’t realistic, they need to be out in the world trying to get better. They’re aren’t going to be any therapists around when you’re walking on bridge feeling suicidal. They’re most likely going to be knives, scissors, razors in almost every building you walk into - no one is going to be taking them from you before you enter to save you from yourself. I suppose what I’m trying to conclude is that; people can help, there is professional help but it can only do one justice to a certain extent. The person has to help themselves more than anyone else can and 9 times out of 10 it’s not that easy.  

Sometimes I feel so afraid because I know I’m prisoner of my own mind. No one can save me from my own mind. No one can control my on mind except for me though I haven’t seemed to grasp how.   

I detest myself an awful lot. I hate everything about me. I have nothing left about me to love, no one does love me. I’ve somehow led myself to believe that the more pounds I loose the more beautiful I will begin to become.  

My therapist believes eating disorders are a form of suicide - the slowest yet rather successful one. I believe her. I think I’ve just discovered that I have nothing left to live for, no motivation, nothing. So my mind has made food the focus in making me believe that I don’t need it. What is the point of it? I don’t need food because I do not need the extra calories to be absorbed by my fat body. So now I at least have something to think about 24/7- rather than death I can think about food and how disgusting it really is. Right now im laying in a hospital bed in the eating disorder ward for adolecents at the Monash Hospital ICU wondering to myself what my life has become at only age 16. It’s tragic really, though I don’t mind it. I’m just really really unwell